


Saying It Out Loud

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Illya's Musings, Illya's POV, Love, M/M, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7494129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon’s voice, the legato of his syllables, was what struck you at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saying It Out Loud

**Author's Note:**

> Fifty little drabbles (mostly G or T rated) based on Illya’s thoughts told from Illya’s POV, regarding his relationship (how they started out and what they become to each other, eventually) with Napoleon. The stories are not necessarily in chronological order or connected to each other (though some might be).

01\. Voice  
Napoleon’s voice, the legato of his syllables, was what struck you at first (not his distracting and wicked bright blue eyes, which came a very close second). The wave-like rhythm, soft and smooth, was somewhat entrancing, and you learn later it’s just like his personality. 

02\. Rome  
You’re supposed to kill Napoleon for the disc, but instead he tosses you your father’s watch and you catch it in your hands before your brain could process he’s not actually shooting at you. You noticed the change in dynamics, from how you had started out in Berlin to that definitive moment. You let out a breath you’d been holding since you stepped into his room, something akin to relief, and then you’re staring at his face. There’s something in his eyes, an expression, as if to say _‘this partnership between us could’ve worked, could’ve been the best, if they’d let us.’_ (Later, after Waverly’s bombshell, you look at the stretch of his neck, idly wants to kiss the hollow below where his jaw met his throat, press your hands against his shoulders. It takes you a moment to realise this, and afterwards, your first initial reaction to that was; well you’re just fucked. You rationalise it by telling yourself it had been a brief passing fixation that would go away, but it had left you staring for a second too long, your mouth dry and your fingers itching.) 

03\. Trouble  
Napoleon’s a trouble magnet, and you’re always saving him, however and whenever you can. He hates it though, says he’s CIA’s best and not some damsel in distress that needs saving from a KGB agent. You both always end up arguing, because he refuses to see your point, and you yourself just won’t see his. You say he’s a stubborn bastard, and just to appease you, he softens his words, tells you to let him learn how to save himself, knowing you can’t always be there for him. In the end, no matter how angry it makes you, you comply to his wish.

04\. Drunk  
Breaks in between missions means spending your time with Gaby and him. You go to bars for leisurely drinks, and somehow, Napoleon always gets a lot more drunk than you by the end of the night. You tease him, say he can’t hold his liquor just like Gaby, and he doesn’t argue. Then, while celebrating a successful mission in Madrid, you’d gotten drunk as well. You aren’t sure of the time when you finally reached your hotel room and Napoleon’s slurring his words, _‘What the fuck do the Spanish put in their alcohol?’_. The room is dark when you both enter and he promptly tripped, being the smooth, smooth person that he is, but you grab him, reflexes working properly despite everything, and half-pulled him upright against the wall. You soon realise you both are standing too tantalising close to each other, inches apart, hands on each other’s arms. When you open your mouth to say something, Napoleon stops you, and then his lips are on your neck. You groan, saying, _‘You’ve got a damn persuasive mouth’_ and he makes you forget what you’re about to protest. And when Gaby finds you both the next morning on the bathroom floor of Napoleon’s room, holding each other like lovers, you realise the teasing that’ll come from her, would be endless.

05\. Discovery  
 Napoleon and you danced around each other for months after the drunken episode before you understand it’s not merely a game he’s playing, leaving you a little petrified. But once you let yourself embrace the feeling, you realise you want it, you want _him_ as well. The realisation makes you see things differently, a change you can’t lay a finger to. And from that moment on, every little smile of his, just a pull at the corner of his mouth, makes your heart do crazy flutters like a teenage girl reacting to a crush. And he could just stand there in front of you, doing absolutely nothing and it’s enough to make you feel like you’re being seduced beyond toleration. 

06\. Gravity  
At first you try to avoid him unless it’s necessary; he doesn’t let you though, continues to gravitate towards you, looks at you curiously every time you leave him abruptly, as if asking _‘why won’t you let me?’_ and it’s because you think you don’t deserve the attention, don’t deserve _his_ attention (until you finally see that he is more aptly your gravity).

07\. Memory  
When you finally take Napoleon’s face in your hands, succumbing to your weakness, kissing him until he’s breathless, he had entangled his fingers in your hair so tight, it’s the most pleasant pain you have ever felt. 

08\. First Time  
The first time the morning after, his eyes follow you as you exit the bathroom with a towel around your waist. He lounges across the bed like a cat, all sinuous muscle beneath smooth skin. Your eyes lock together and you’re the first to look away, unsure how to handle the situation, unsure how to handle his gaze. You walk over to your suitcase (you’re in your hotel room in some city, and you haven’t bothered to unpack, unlike him, always the meticulous one) and search through it for some clothes, when you hear the creak of mattress springs and assumed he’s headed towards the bathroom to shower. Instead, you feel the gentle press of his fingertips trailing across your shoulder blades. You stiffen for a moment before turning around to face him. His fingertips then move up along the cords of your neck, across your cheekbones. You could barely contain the wild beating of your heartbeat, wanting to say things but the words are stuck in your throat. He steps closer and all you could see are his eyes, luminous blue, staring deep into your own. Your name is a breath of air released against your lips and then he kisses you. 

09\. Questions  
He rolls over on top of you after you’d made love (you still don’t know what to call it; is it making love? sex? just fucking?), propping himself up on his hands. His face is only an inch away from yours and you’re amazed by how comfortable it feels. 

“So, what is this then?” he asks as if it’s suddenly important to him, enthusiastically even, and you can’t help but smile. 

You tilt your head upwards a bit and you kiss him.

You think of your answers, of what you want to say. You think _‘It’s whatever you want it to be, Cowboy. It’s everything I need right now. It’s everything. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m just imagining it, all of it. But I don’t give a fuck because I want this. I want you.’_

In the end you tell him none of it, hopes he understands all of it by merely showing it to him.

10\. Whirlwind  
The first year being with UNCLE was more a whirlwind than a roller coaster ride. Partnered with Napoleon, your sworn enemy at first, seemed surreal, but then you lost your heart to the thief along the way and before you know what had hit you, Napoleon’s telling you exactly what it was you’d been grappling for. And never had anything made more sense than you and him, _together_.

11\. Injuries  
He’s injured and you’re angry because he’s hurt. Later, when he’s lying in bed, you kiss him and he lets you smother him for as long as you want. You subject him to some sleep-summoning book reading (you read him Jane Eyre) and although he complains, it feels like you’re both carefree and everything else is inconsequential. For the moment, all the worry and weariness seem to seep out of you and him.

12\. Arguments  
You are standing in the rain and he opens the door before you get a chance to leave. He stares at you for a moment, a sorry sight with water dripping from the end of your cold nose, before gesturing for you to enter.

“Is there something you needed to talk to me about?” he asks, stepping away to get a towel as you wipe your feet on his welcome mat.

You shrug in answer as he comes back into view. You came here on impulse, not knowing what to say but knowing that something needed to be said after your stupid mistake. You take the towel he hands you and bury your face in the soft cotton. You tell him that you’re sorry. And when he asks you what for, you find that you don’t really know. _Everything, anything, nothing._ He doesn’t give you a chance to try to think of a reply.

“Did you ever think, even once, of what this meant to me? What I was willing to risk for you?”

His questions, spoken with a calm and even voice without a hint of inflection, strike you like a slap across the face and a lightning bolt from the sky.

You hadn’t. He watches you with guarded eyes as you focus on him and you don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens and closes several times, teeth clacking together in a painfully loud sound. He looks to you as if he’s poised upon a precipice; his body tight with tension and leaning forward in an unintentionally looming manner. Your teeth click shut again. He sighs and deflates like a balloon as it soars through the air.

“Leave, Illya,” he says, no emotion in his voice. He turns and begins to walk away before the last syllable of your name passes through his lips.

You don’t know what to say, what to do, but you know you can’t leave like this. You say his name, clear like a ringing bell, for once not mumbling, and you see him pause mid-step before continuing forward. And this time, in London, on a rainy afternoon, it is you who pull him against you, slam your lips together. There is none of the adrenaline and magic of your first kiss. None of the lazy and languid kisses of hotel rooms during missions. This is a kiss born from desperation; mouths open and tongues twisting. Sharing oxygen. Life. You make him see, in the end, you can’t live without him in your life.

13\. Rain  
“Have you ever stayed out in the rain, Illya? You know, just to get crazy and soaking wet?” he asks you one day and you frown at him. You want to remind him that you had done it once, when you stood in the rain in front of his apartment while trying to beg for his forgiveness, but eventually you don’t. Instead, you tell him he’s not making sense. But he makes you see what he’d meant when next the sky breaks, and underneath the endless London rain, he kisses you over and over in a darkened alleyway while letting the cold water soak you through, forgetting yourselves in the moment.

14\. Wings  
His bright, dazzling smile, which is such a simple act, but nonetheless an extremely dangerous weapon for the weak hearted, lifts your spirits like wings. If you were an artist, it would be your inspiration, because he may not realise it, but his smile makes you feel like you’re floating in illusion.

15\. Cold  
It’s winter and it’s cold and you know Napoleon hates it. You’re amused how childlike he could be when he curls in front of the fireplace, or when he buries himself underneath thick layers of blankets just to keep warm. Knowing he needs the extra help, your arms snake around him from behind, embracing him. Nothing beats body warmth and you provide him just what he needs, and maybe more.

16\. Mornings  
Napoleon standing before you with his morning hair, shirt ruffled, and those hazy sleepy eyes, makes you wonder if you’ve ever seen anyone more gorgeous. Makes you wonder if you’ve let him know that enough. And if you haven’t, you would endeavour to do so because you swear nobody could ever look that good when they wake up. 

17\. Temptation  
His hand creeps under your shirt and nails sink into your skin, and that mad infliction in your head means you have to oblige him (because you yourself can’t resist the temptation). You succumb every time by pushing him up against a wall, or pining him underneath you on the carpeted floor of your office, and taking him right there and then.

18\. Music  
You hate dancing. It’s just an art you can’t master. Napoleon and Gaby though, have rhythm in their feet and just watching them dance together burns the pit of your stomach. You shouldn’t be jealous, but you are. You want to be able to take his hand and lead him out and just sway naturally to the beat of the music.

19\. Silk  
You’ve never been one to ponder over delicate things like smells and feelings (you’ve never paid attention to trivial matters), but the smoothness of his lips gliding over your neck can surely rival the finest silk, and the warm patterns traced on your skin by roaming hands surely puts Egyptian cotton like the one on his bed to shame.

20\. Cover  
In your arms, there is protection and comfort and bliss as he’s never known (he tells you this) and you’re sure whatever it is between you both cannot be wrong, improper maybe, irrational even, like maybe you haven’t been thinking straight for the last few months or so, and the only reason you can find for this asininity is _him_. So no, it isn’t wrong.

21\. Promise  
There are promises in his kiss and his touch that you know he’ll keep, but you’re afraid, so afraid it won’t last because everything between you could be ripped apart in the blink of an eye. And you don’t know if you’re brave enough to face it, if and when that happens.

22\. Dream  
You dream of Moscow, of your home sometimes, and of what it would be without him. You’d be incomplete. And maybe there’s always been something missing in your life, maybe even if you could forget Rome ever happened, and if it never had happened, there would still be a void somewhere inside you that you’d subconsciously know how to fill. Maybe it was always there waiting for Napoleon to complete the missing piece.

23\. Fluff  
You have been mad at him for a couple of days now. It wasn’t one of those quick, hour-or-so arguments either. It was one of those prolonged, dragged out silent treatments you like to pull on him after he’s gotten you really, really mad (and the reasons usually circulate around the same old thing; his apparent lack of regard when it comes to his own safety during missions). So when you hear the knock on your apartment door that evening, you know exactly who’s on the other side of it.

“Can I come in?”

You roll your eyes when you see him and give him an exasperated sigh. “Yeah sure, go ahead,” you say, stepping aside, letting him in.

He does so and once inside, he slowly, from behind his back, produces a bouquet of flowers for you (he tells you later that they’re lilies), and your eyes widen in surprise. But you try to remain stoic and unperturbed, even if you’ve already accepted the flowers from his hand. 

“Why the flowers? You think I’m one of your women conquests? Trying to bribe me with this? Or you think I’m the woman in this relationship?”

“Illya, what?” he says, eyes round with shock at your remark, and then, suddenly, he’s laughing, really laughing, and that just annoys you even more.

“Cowboy, I don’t see anything funny at all in this,” you snap at him but before you could do or say anything else, he’s latched his arms around your shoulders, hugging you tight. You want to push him away, to give you some semblance of dignity, but you’ve to admit you’ve missed his embrace and it’s good to have his arms around you again. 

“I feel really bad,” he mutters with eyes that could melt hearts. “Forgive me?”

Damn, your resistance is failing fast.

“Try to do better than this,” you say and then he pouts.

“I’ll cook dinner for you, how does that sound?” he says, his eyes hopeful and wide, and then he’s kissing your cheeks, your neck, and your last line of defence just crumbles.

He never makes it to the kitchen in the end.

24\. Plead  
“Napoleon, please, _please_ , if you don’t stop, I won’t last,” you beg and gasp sharply as his tongue graces the tip of your length, sending mighty shivers through your body. He only ignores you and takes you in, and the feeling of moist hotness against silky hardness have you throwing your head back into the pillows, moaning his name continuously. Small droplets of sweat trails down the side of your flushed face as the swirling tongue and lightly scraping teeth send your mind spinning dangerously fast and you cry out, arching your back as he pushes you over the edge in no time. You’re sure you’d blacked out for a moment or three (usually it’s him falling apart under your talented hands and mouth), but is brought back to planet earth by his lips on yours.

25\. Silence  
He says the three words as he drops a kiss on your shoulder, then rests his forehead against your temple and you think for some (stupid, idiotic) inexplicable reason that if you repeat it you’ll only ruin the moment.

26\. Hide  
“Cowboy, this is bad idea,” you say as he pulls you into one of the janitor closets in a warehouse you’d infiltrated. You’re trying to hide from your assailants, and he’s sure you both would be safe for at least a couple minutes – at least until they’re gone, that’s what he had explained to you.

“Relax,” he assures, locking the door behind him. “You Russians are too uptight.”

You growl, make a face in response, not that he could see you in the dark. “Hey, now Russians are not that–”

But you couldn’t finish what you’d wanted to say, because he’s kissing you next, pulling you closer, and you give in, feeling his heat against your skin. Your bodies touch with an instant fire and electricity. He pulls away after leaving you a little breathless. When he’s about to defend what he had done, you merely pull him again towards you and mutter, “Just shut up and kiss me again.” 

27\. Itch  
Being together with him is like something itching, burning at your very skin, near physical pain and you know it won’t go away.

28\. Strength  
The CIA once tried to take him away from you. You vent your anger and frustration on everything and everyone that crossed your path, even him, because he’s too calm about it (maybe you didn’t matter as much to him as he’s to you). Your world was shattering right in front of your very eyes. But when the matter was amiably resolved, you barged into his apartment, grabbing his arms with trembling hands, letting him know over and over again how you can’t even begin to fathom the thought of him leaving, of not having him within your reach.

29\. Mask  
Napoleon wears his mask constantly. And you know there are two. The exterior only seen by the world and the reality for you, only for you.

30\. Edge  
You feel like living on the edge, being the reckless one sometimes, and you do just that, when one day, you drag him through the dark streets of Athens, completely wasted, and stopping to kiss him at every corner. No complaints are heard from him, just delicious moans of approval.

31\. Forgotten  
You have insecurities and wish sometimes that you could forget him (that it never started) and other times you pray that he’ll never forget you, that it’ll never end.

32\. Devious  
You press your bodies together, at certain times hardly a fraction of space between any of your parts (dangerous, yes, but oh so gratifying), and he moans, demands more. You tease him, run your fingers lightly over the arch of his foot and he shivers (you wouldn’t think his feet would be sensitive, and yet, they are). You grin as you see his reaction and you do it again, just to torture him further. He grumbles, says you’re playing dirty, but he isn’t about to complain in case you decide to stop altogether.

Finally, you move back up along his legs, pausing to nip at the hollow behind his knee. His head falls back on the pillows, and you notice he’s closed his eyes at some point without realising. It’s almost too much to watch you like this he admits, the possessive glint in your eyes when you look up at him – but that only makes it worse for him because he couldn’t guess what you’d do next.

You nudge his thighs farther apart, licking over the tender skin there making him gasp. You haven’t shaved that morning and you’re sure the stubble rasping over his skin, ratchets up the spiralling tension in him. 

Napoleon bites his lip to hold back a moan as you suck at his hipbone, nuzzling his stomach, along the line of hair _there_ , and dip your tongue into his belly button. He arches up towards you again, his cock desperate for pressure or friction or anything, but you only pin him down on the bed with one hand on his hip, as you trace a pattern on his hard belly with your lips and tongue.

He pleads. Sweats.

You look up to meet his gaze, and he sees you now, unable not to watch that dangerous and intent look in your eyes, before you lean down to breathe slowly, hotly, wetly over his cock, and after you give him what he craves, he comes so hard after that, he almost blacks out.

When his brain’s finally working again, he pulls you down on top of him and kisses you, tasting himself on your lips.

“If that was supposed to persuade me not to fuck up ever again,” he says breathlessly, “I think your plan might have backfired, Peril.”

“Who said this was my whole plan?” you grin. “There’s still more to come—”

33\. Sacred  
Napoleon is like your first love (and maybe he is, maybe you really didn’t know what love was until _him_ ) and it’s new and exciting and bright and precious and it becomes like something fundamental after a while, like something integrated into yourself that stains and will never come off.

34\. Afraid  
You think that it was hard at first; admitting it, admitting how you feel, because you thought it wouldn’t last and that you weren’t supposed to do this. You imagined how fucked up it would be if you lost it, if you lost _him_. You thought maybe it’d be best to give it up before it could get too far beyond your reach (and you realise now that giving him up isn’t and never was a real option to begin with).

35\. World  
You don’t try to feign ignorance, though, because the world (as fucked-up as it is) is still out there and it does matter and everything still could go terribly wrong. Napoleon just makes it more bearable and gives you a break from everything that you fear.

36\. Green  
After a little tiff (your jealousy had gotten the better of you), he tells you to relax and not to take things too seriously. _‘It didn’t mean anything, was only for the mission’_ are his actual words, but you still tell him to fuck off. You drink even more than usual as you continue eyeing him (so good at what he does it makes the green-eyed monster in you going like never before), your fingers gripping the glass in your hand hard enough to shatter it, and the mission ends with you fucking him in the restroom of the bar, whispers _‘you’re mine and no one else get to touch you like that’_ until he’s wrecked, body limp and sated in your arms.

37\. Fever  
You both end up completely sick one week because you are too allured by his excessive body heat to leave him alone for too long. You thought it was funny. Napoleon seemed annoyed but he wasn’t, not really. 

38\. Laugh  
You both take a tumble during a routine UNCLE training, end up rolling around breathless and laughing and it was different and light and you have the urge to lean down and kiss him senseless, right there in the middle of the mat in the training room, regardless of who’s there, who’s watching, so they’ll know who he belongs to. _You._

39\. Lies  
Deception is easy but sometimes you think about doing the really hard things like saying it out loud what you feel; to yourself, to him, to the world.

40\. Forever  
_‘I love you’; ‘Yes, Cowboy’; ‘No, I mean it. And I know I act like a complete asshole sometimes but I do. Just don’t ever forget that.’_

41\. Overwhelmed  
You lose it when you see how open he is, unafraid, so unyielding. So you take his breath away by engulfing your lips with his, and it seems to say _‘No, I won’t forget, not ever’._

42\. Whisper  
You can’t help but whisper the words, when he’s asleep and you’re gazing at him (testing it with your tongue: _‘I. Love. You.’; ‘I. Love you.’; ‘I love you.’_ ) Simple. Really, fucking simple. Then why is it so hard to say when he’s awake?

43\. Wait  
But he doesn’t have to wait long to finally hear it escape your lips (but you don’t exactly say it every day or anything, that would be too cheesy; it’s special and you both know it’s the unsaid things, the things that can’t be explained, the succulent silences that really mean the most).

44\. Talk  
It’s terribly bad when you’re away on lone missions (something that you hate and dread), and it’s always awkward when you’re on the phone, because you actually have to say things and you can’t distract him with kisses or caresses, until you admit (that you don’t know what to say), and end up just breathing into the phone until you both fall asleep.

45\. Search  
Your search is over; for something good, something solid to hold on to, something that will always be there, invisible for others to see but always there. Because you’ve found him.

46\. Hope  
You’re the one that’s shot this time, and Napoleon’s there with you. He whispers words in your ear until you wake up, and you see the fear ( he tries hard to hide), in his eyes. His hands then are in your hair, on your face, and he repeats assurances to both you and himself. “It’s okay, it’ll be okay, I’m here, okay? I’m here,” he says, repeats over and over, and he kisses you and you believe him; if nothing else is, at least you and him will be.

47\. Trapped  
You are both so exhausted after a particularly hard mission in Tokyo, that as soon as you arrive at your small hotel room for a respite, he straightaway suggests taking a nap. You don’t argue, because you’re dying for that rest as well. 

”I’m amazed you’re still able to stand straight, Peril.”

He tugs at your arm, pulls you down on that impossibly small bed he’s already lying on. You both don’t bother to undress, except for your shoes which you’d kicked off, now lying somewhere on the carpeted floor. 

“Let’s just rest. We’ve got a couple of hours,” he says and you hum.

Each small movement, each tiny breath between you and him, each part of your bodies, touch. Your back is against the wall and your chest is against his back. There is a small window above you and from the other buildings nearby, you can hear noises and music in languages you don’t understand. You want to ask him about it but as if knowing what you’re going to say, he murmurs, “Sleep, Peril.”

You sense the half-annoyance in his voice and can’t help but smile. You pull him closer. Your nose nuzzles the nape of his neck and his soft hair. And you feel like carding your fingers through it, to touch and feel. 

But you can’t.

He has your hands trapped in between his fingers, against his heart.

48\. Fear  
You hate yourself sometimes for needing him so much because if it ever ended you'd be lost, without a clue what to do or how you'd go on (because he's been the one thing you've been sure of). 

49\. Camaraderie  
You remember what it was like when it first started. At the beginning. How tentative and wary and calculating the both of you were. You weren’t sure of what to do, of what to make of this UNCLE you’d been thrust into. And you didn’t know what to make of this frustrating, American cowboy, who you had to call your partner. Fast forward years later, and even then, sometimes, there were still the odd moments when you didn’t know, when you could sometimes feel that old hesitancy creeping back in. But he’s always there to calm you, to make you see things the way you want it to be. If you tried to explain it, the why, the reason behind everything that had happened, it would be something like this. Like how your legs would be shaky, tired, after some gruelling mission. How you’re breathing hard, unsteady and ready to just crumble on the floor of some hotel room you’re in, reluctant to move. But you could look across the room and he would always be there. An understanding face, a shoulder to sling an arm around and lean on a little (slyly sometimes), because you didn’t want to make it too obvious to everyone what he was to you. But it would be there, if you needed it, if you wanted it.

That’s the only way you know how to explain it, this core understanding, this camaraderie, this idea that such different people could be all built around one, simple thing.

50\. Lock and Breathe  
It, this, _him_ , was the key, you think; the answer to everything (your wishes and dreams and yearning of a heart locked up tightly for so long). He is your breath, your drug, your oxygen, your pleasure and your pain, your ultimate weakness and the strength instilled in every fibre of your being, your everything.

  _fin_

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed all my Illya/Napoleon stories and as for this last one, tell me which drabble was your favourite? :)


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